


zigzagging towards the light

by lagaudiere



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagaudiere/pseuds/lagaudiere
Summary: Spencer has been having the dreams almost as long as he can remember. They started out vaguely, simply bloody and strange, images of people he loved being hurt. After he joined the BAU, they became more specific. His subconscious woke in images of the cases he had worked, the bodies he’d seen. There were months at a time when he hardly slept, trying to stave off the images of death. It never worked. He knows that most people in his line of work have nightmares, but it's not the same. Anyone would imagine their family being hurt. Anyone would be afraid of failing to protect them. In Spencer’s dreams, he is always the one holding the knife. (In which Reid and Morgan figure things out, eventually, it just takes a while)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely AU from season 4 onwards... warning for canon-typical violence and murder stuff as well as Internalized Negative Thoughts about mental illness

When Spencer found out that there was a name for what what was happening to his mother, what made her stay in bed for days and throw glasses at things that weren't there and tell Spencer in a low conspiratorial voice that the government was listening to everything they said through the phone, he started doing research. 

He learned everything he could about schizophrenia, from a pile of books provided by a sympathetic librarian who didn't ask questions. He wanted to know everything, because the first step to fixing something was to understand, inside and out, how it worked.

It was a short trip from abnormal psychology to crime and serial killing, and Spencer started reading books with covers splattered in blood, with raised silver letters spelling out names like Manson and Berkowitz. 

The librarians had a talk with him then, because everyone knows the stories about solitary young boys with Coke-bottle glasses who like to read about death. 

His mother didn't want to take medication, and Spencer understood. It wasn't any different than not wanting to take the endless tests he'd been subjected to at school, the ones that tried to test the limits of his memory or find a label for what they called a behavioral disorder. They didn't need to change. They were a solid, solitary alliance against people who wanted them to be ordinary. 

But Spencer had to take care of her, and he had to know the signs. The warnings of homicidal behavior were laid out clearly in his books; it was only denial that prevented the families from seeing it. He watched his mother carefully, and he watched himself even more closely, his mind imprinted with an image of an inheritance chart. 

Spencer works for the government now, and something he thinks of his mother's hatred of phone calls. There's a thin line, any FBI agent knows, between paranoia and fact. 

He still doesn't trust cellphones, even when they're switched off, and he doesn't trust himself. 

***

Spencer kisses Morgan for the first time in Las Vegas, which is a mistake, and he knows it as he does it, but it still happens, almost without conscious thought. Because they're walking out of the club to catch a cab together and Spencer doesn't know where JJ and Emily are, and he hasn't looked back once at the bartender he gave his card to, but he also hasn't stopped feeling warm and pleased with himself about how proud of him Morgan looked for getting her attention, the way he'd smiled. 

He's always wanted that too much, Morgan’s attention and approval, and he hasn’t stopped looking at him since the first time they met. He's always aware of Morgan’s body, his broad shoulders and strong hands and casual swagger, and he's especially aware now, with a slight buzz of alcohol in his blood. 

And Morgan's arm is around his shoulders and they're laughing at nothing and then Spencer is leaning forward, almost falling, and they're kissing. Or at least he's kissing Morgan.

And then it's over and Morgan's hands are on his shoulders, holding him away, and he's saying "Reid?" with something like disbelief. 

Spencer's breath catches. "Oh god," he says. 

Morgan's looking at his like he's an unsub with a loaded weapon. His heads are still on Spencer's shoulders. "Oh god," he says again. "I -- I drank too much, I shouldn't have, shouldn't have done that, my therapist says I have an addictive personality, I -- Morgan, I'm really sorry." 

He tries to scan Morgan's face for signs of anger or disgust or pain. He mostly just looks cautious, Spencer thinks, a little shocked. He pulls his hands away, says "It's fine, Reid. Let's just go." 

Spencer bites down on his tongue, hard. "It's not fine," he says. "I should have asked. I'm really--" 

"Stop it," Morgan says firmly. "We're leaving now." He grabs Spencer's elbow and pulls him towards a waiting cab, and Spencer shuts up. 

On the way back to the hotel, Morgan stares out the window in silence, and Spencer digs his fingers into the old injection points in his wrists. You always do this, he thinks, scolding himself. How could you not know better by now? 

At the door, Morgan pats him on the back in his typical good-sport Morgan way, and says, "We don't have to talk about it." 

Spencer's skin burns where he touches him through three layers of clothing. 

***  
When Spencer joined the BAU, no one intimidated him more than Derek Morgan. 

Morgan seemed like the type of man he’d met more than a few times at the academy, the kind who personified masculinity and self-confidence and who regarded a job at the FBI as something he’d earned. Morgan walked into every room like he owned it. He called the new tech analyst “baby girl” and called Spencer, in a half-taunting tone, “pretty boy”, while he quizzed him about crime rates and tried to test the limits of his memory. 

Morgan was always the kind of person who had made him nervous, and it was partially because he seemed like the kind of agent who would be overtly hostile to Spencer’s presence on the team. But that was only half of the reason he made Spencer nervous. The other half was that no one, regardless of IQ level, would be immune to the tongue-tying effects of Morgan’s biceps. 

He’d never expected them to be friends. 

His initial impressions were wrong, though. Morgan wasn't a stereotypical macho cop; he was the heart of the team. He had an ability to get through to people that Spencer had never had, and he cared so much about every member of the team, every person they met. He made Spencer want to be a better person; he made Spencer want to be around him all the time. 

It was becoming a problem. 

***

Morgan doesn't keep his promise. He always wants to process feelings, to have things out in the open. It's one of his best qualities. It's also very inconvenient. 

"Do we need to talk about last night?" Morgan says the next morning, when they're sipping lukewarm coffee in the hotel lobby waiting for Hotch to arrive with the day's plans. 

Spencer had spent the night on the phone with his sponsor, apologizing yet again for his constantly shifting time zones. She'd listened to his pathetic recounting of the story and reminded him that drugs weren't really what he wanted, as if he didn't know. They were just the next best thing. 

And somewhere in Las Vegas, women were still dying. 

"No," Spencer says firmly. "It was a one-time mistake. I promise I'm not going to make you... uncomfortable." 

Morgan sips his coffee, and Spencer can't see his eyes through his sunglasses. 

"You can stop apologizing," Morgan says. "We're still friends, Reid." 

Right. Friends. Spencer can do friends. He offers Morgan an uncomfortable smile. 

"You could have told us, though," Morgan continues, in a faux-casual tone. "No one was going to judge you." 

Spencer doesn't mention that he's hardly the first one to hide something personal from the team. 

Spencer doesn't tell Morgan that he knows he wears the sunglasses so often to make it harder for the team to read his microexpressions. They all deserve to have some secrets. 

Spencer doesn't say, maybe, for once, I wanted one thing about me to be normal. 

The seconds between them seem to stretch impossibly long, and Spencer wonders if this awkward silence is permanent now, if Morgan will ever talk to him the same way again. 

"Did you know some colonies of sea grass could live to be two hundred thousand years old?" Spencer says, because it feels like that might be how long it takes before he can look at Morgan again. 

But Morgan doesn't seem to make that connection, and instead he just laughs, and it's almost like they're fine. 

***  
Spencer has been having the dreams almost as long as he can remember. 

They started out vaguely, simply bloody and strange, images of people he loved being hurt. After he joined the BAU, they became more specific. His subconscious woke in images of the cases he had worked, the bodies he’d seen. There were months at a time when he hardly slept, trying to stave off the images of death. It never worked. 

He knows that most people in his line of work have nightmares, but it's not the same. Anyone would imagine their family being hurt. Anyone would be afraid of failing to protect them. 

In Spencer’s dreams, he is always the one holding the knife. 

Psychologists say that thoughts which disturb you are not indicative of actual desire. He should be able to believe that, but if there's one thing he’s learned from the BAU it’s that you can kill without wanting to. The inside of your mind is never safe. 

So he's gone through life planning in the short term, trying to do as much as he can with the time that he has to assume will be short. 

Sometimes he can convince himself that he's lucky, that the only difference between himself and anyone else is that he’s more aware of the risk. 

That had worked better before the BAU, before he had a group of people who really felt like family, and now there was so much more to lose. 

***  
He wasn't sure when the way he felt about Morgan had shifted so dramatically, had become this unnamable thing that he couldn't acknowledge and couldn't help. It had nothing but negative outcomes, but it slid under his skin like a blade, and Spencer knew as soon as he was conscious of it that it was impossible. He could want Morgan, beautiful, charismatic, steady Morgan, if he never let it show on the surface. 

Now he’d broken his rules, and it was an easy line to follow from condition to conclusion. Even if Morgan didn't show it at first, they couldn't be the same. Spencer had destabilized the balance of the group dynamic.

Spencer starts spending longer hours in the office and brushing off the rest of the team when they ask him to go out afterwards. It's easier to focus on the work. It's always been easier than anything else. 

He's getting less and less sleep, but it's not until he falls asleep at his desk with his head down on a stack of folders that anyone notices, and of course it's Morgan. 

“Hey,” he says, looking, Spencer thinks, uncomfortable. “I thought I was coming in early, but I guess I'm here late. Did you stay here all night?” 

“I just had some reports to fill out,” Spencer says lamely, shrugging off his hand. 

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “All night? Did you eat anything?” 

“Um -- last night. I think.” 

“Okay,” Morgan says, spinning Spencer’s chair away from his desk effortlessly. “We’re going to get breakfast.” 

Morgan tells him about last night's hockey game on the way to the diner they go to sometimes when they fly in late at night. It's the small talk of people who are avoiding speaking seriously, and Spencer appreciates it. 

He orders a stack of waffles and a large coffee at Morgan’s encouragement. It's not until the food has already arrived that he realizes Hotch is probably wondering where they are.

“You should call the office,” he says. “We could be missing something important.” 

Morgan rolls his eyes a little but flips open his phone and calls Garcia. “Hey, baby girl, me and the boy wonder are gonna be a little late today,” he says, and grins back when Spencer scowls at him. “No, it's fine, he was just up all night, I'm making sure he gets something to eat. Okay, thanks beautiful, love you.” 

He snaps the phone closed, and Spencer hopes he didn't notice him flinch. 

“You gonna eat or not?” Morgan says. 

"Are you in love with her?" Spencer says, the words feeling forced out. "With Garcia." 

"Come on." Morgan half-laughs. "She's my best friend." 

Spencer never really understood their relationship. He used to think it was genuine flirting, that something would happen between them eventually or would have happened if not for the bureau's relatively harsh attitude towards workplace dating, but then nothing did happen and they didn't cut back on the flirting or act as if they should be embarrassed. 

Then he wondered if it was a game Morgan played, if he were pretending to flirt because it amused him to think that Garcia thought it was real, the way he'd seen too many men act before. Or if it were somehow akin to the way he called Spencer "pretty boy", half affection and half a tease, because “pretty” wasn't really a compliment, no matter how much Spencer liked it. 

But Morgan wasn't cruel, especially not with Garcia, and she was too smart not to be on even ground in their relationship. They were best friends. And Spencer figured he'd simply reached the end of his deductive abilities, because this had always been an area that was somewhat beyond his reach. 

"That doesn't answer my question," Spencer says, frowning at Morgan. 

That was one of his two running hypotheses -- that Morgan really did love her. The other, which he had to admit was the one he preferred, was that it was a kind of unconsciously agreed-upon mutual performance, that it gave both of them a chance to fend off perceptions they didn't want. 

For Garcia, it was a counter to her self-esteem issues and to the last image she wanted anyone to have of her, as a boring techie. For Morgan -- 

"I'm not in love with Garcia," he says quietly. His hand makes a fleeting movement towards Spencer's, where they're curled around his coffee cup, and then he stops himself. He probably thinks Spencer didn't notice. "Is this a one-sided game of twenty questions, or do I get to ask you one now?" 

"You can ask me anything," Spencer says, feeling significantly more self-confident. He thinks he might be breaking the rule about inter-team profiling a little, but it'll be better if it's mutual. 

"Have you ever dated anyone?" Morgan says, and while Spencer is distracted by that, leans in and spears a bite of his waffles with his fork. Spencer kicks him under the table in protest, and Morgan grins. "No judgment either way, kid." 

Spencer reminds himself that this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having with a friend. At least he thinks it is. JJ and Emily are always discussing similar topics, as are Hotch and Rossi. Still, he has to look away from Morgan to say, "One person. Ethan." 

"Ethan from New Orleans?" Morgan laughs, incredulous. "You and Ethan the jazz musician?" 

"He wasn't a jazz musician at the time," Spencer protests. 

Morgan seems genuinely delighted by this new information. "So when we were working that case and you ignored our calls," he says, "you were hooking up with your ex? And I couldn't congratulate you because I didn't even know about it?" 

Spencer's face burns bright red and he has to return his gaze to the tabletop. "Maybe?" he manages, to further delighted grinning from Morgan. "But you can't tell anyone! And that includes Garcia!"

 

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Morgan promises. 

***

Morgan has killed people, not a small number, although Spencer doesn't know exactly how many because he wasn't there when Morgan joined the bureau or when he was a cop in Chicago, and it would be impolite to ask. 

He's seen it, though. He's seen Morgan kill people who deserved it and people who were sick, who could have gotten help if they hadn't been trying to hurt someone else. 

It's comforting, Spencer thinks. Morgan doesn't hesitate. He does it cleanly with one shot to the head and he doesn't enjoy it, but he doesn't hesitate either. 

He thinks of that, sometimes, when his headaches are bad and his dreams are especially violent. Morgan wouldn't let him hurt anyone. 

Spencer loves him, loves him for every child he's every been kind to and every time he's made them all laugh and every shot he's ever fired, and that isn't fair, because Morgan is so good and Spencer isn't. 

***  
The next time they kiss, Spencer isn't the one who starts it. 

It's after the anthrax, and Spencer isn't surprised, exactly, that Morgan is the one waiting by his bedside in the hospital when he wakes up. But it does feel a little unreal, like maybe someone had slipped him some morphine after all, like the last hazy moments of a dream. 

He knows from experience with close brushes with death that you never really believe you're going to die. You never really convince yourself that it's real. Nothing about it felt real to him, but he can tell by the way Morgan’s looking at him now that he had believed wholeheartedly that Spencer wouldn't make it out of that house alive. 

And now he's here, and he's real, and he’d waited for Spencer to wake up long enough for someone to bring him Jell-O and a magazine. 

Spencer blinks at him. “Is there any Jell-O left?” he says. 

Morgan just looks at him, eyes bright with an emotion that only now borders on disbelief, and he leans down and kisses the corner of Spencer’s mouth. 

It’s over before Spencer has the time to process what’s happening, much less respond, and Morgan just sits back in his chair and looks pleased with himself. 

Spencer touches a hand to his lips, unthinkingly. 

“How much of this is a hallucination?” he says. 

Morgan frowns, and Spencer hates that, his eyebrows drawing together in a pained look. Spencer loves his eyebrows. He tries to sit up, to reach for them and smooth them back into place, but Morgan catches his wrist. 

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, and Spencer slumps back against the pillow, discontent and suddenly certain he’s not going to be kissed again. 

“I thought you were dying,” Morgan says, voice a little harsh, “and you thought I wouldn't want to be there.”

Spencer's eyes go wide. This can't be about that. If it is, Morgan has a strange way of attempting to be reassuring. 

“I just… it was less humiliating without you watching,” he manages, trying to sound lighthearted about it.

Morgan frowns. “You've got nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says, but before Spencer can reply, a nurse is in the doorway with a clipboard and a series of inquiries about how he's feeling and whether he's sure they can't write him a prescription for anything. 

By the time he’s cleared to leave, Morgan is wearing his sunglasses again, and he doesn't mention it. Spencer knows enough, by now, to take the hint that he shouldn't either. On the plane, he stares at the lines of the book he's reading until he can't see anything but blurs, and then wills himself to fall asleep again.

He has terrible dreams. 

***

Everyone expected Spencer to be able to forgive his father. Like it should be easy, just because he had followed his son’s career after he’d left. But that had never been what it was about. 

People thought that he resented growing up without two parents, or that he wished his father had taken him away too, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Maybe the only unselfish thing he’d done was understand that Diana needed their son more. 

Diana was the one whose heart was broken when her husband left, and that was what Spencer couldn't forgive. 

People said that his mother was troubled, but Spencer knew what they meant. They meant “crazy”. She wasn't that, either -- she was sick. But it was a sickness that her husband couldn't stand, and the only treatment was the pills she didn't want to take, and they fought about the pills every night until he left her alone with them, the pills and the sickness and their son. 

“He’ll come back, baby,” she’d said at first, when she emerged from one of her crying spells and tried to put on a bright, brave face. “He had to go away for a little while, but he still loves me. He’ll be back.” 

Spencer didn't believe her, and before long she stopped saying it, like she had stopped writing and playing chess with him and eating without being reminded.

“He was a bastard,” she’d say later. “We’re better off without him.” 

“I know,” Spencer replied, and waited for her hand to relax long enough to ease the scissors she was clutching away from her and bandage the cuts on her palms.

She’d never really recovered from losing him, and Spencer had never known how to make up for that. He’d hoped he would never love anyone enough that they could break his heart that completely. 

***

It wasn't the last time, and that felt even stranger and more unbelievable. It didn't stop happening. 

Morgan kisses him in New York City and Colorado Springs and Flagstaff, Arizona. Spencer thinks that if this continues at its current rate, it won't be long before they've kissed in every state in the U.S. Not that Spencer’s counting.

It's only out of town, and it's only ever once, and Morgan is always the one to initiate it and the one to walk away. 

Nothing goes further than that, and they don't talk about it. Spencer could never be the first person to ask what it means. 

Hotch asks the two of them to go to a small town in Alabama, to interview a fourteen-year-old who had killed his entire family and wouldn't speak. Spencer understands the logic of the two of them; he's there to try and understand the mentality of a several mentally ill child, reach out to him and empathize, and Morgan is there to intimidate him. 

The initial interrogation is completely ineffective. No matter which tactic they try, Mitchell Swenson, who has stabbed six people to death, says nothing. 

“The Swensons were religious, practically part of a cult,” Spencer muses when they spread out their notes in the conference room they’re working from. “It's possible Mitchell believed he was sending his family to heaven.” 

Morgan looks unconvinced. “Reid, he killed four younger siblings and his pregnant mother. Even if we argue the father was abusive -- that sound like mercy to you?” 

“It could have been. His parents believed it was a duty to God to have as many children as possible and his mother's last pregnancy was difficult. She and her youngest daughter barely survived, but she got pregnant again as soon as possible.” Spencer leafs through the pages of his case file, looking for pieces he’d missed. “Maybe her oldest child felt like he couldn't let that happen again.” 

“Okay.” Morgan taps his fingers on the desk, impatient. “So then why not kill himself?” 

Spencer shrugs. “To give himself time to repent?”

Morgan closes his file with a sigh. “It's a working theory,” he admits. “Tomorrow we’ll focus on the youngest sister. You wanna head back to the motel? We’ll get more done with an early morning than a late night.” 

Spencer’s mind immediately leaps away from the case. The last time they’d stayed overnight out of town, Morgan had followed him to the door of his hotel room and waited until the rest of the team disappeared behind their own doors before kissing him, briefly and sweetly, and Spencer had practically melted, clutching at the doorknob to keep himself upright for long moments after Morgan walked away. 

He can't help the increase in his pulse at the prospect of adding another red dot to his mental map. 

“Yes,” he says. “Let's go.” 

As soon as they leave the conference room where they’ve been working, they're met by the local chief of police, Brett Daniels, who gives them a look that tells Spencer he's decidedly unhappy with what the federal government has sent him. 

“You boys find anything out?” he says gruffly, though he can't be older than Morgan. 

“We have a theory,” Spencer says. “We’re going to try talking to Mitchell about whether his family’s church may have provoked religious delusion, or a belief that the only way he could help his family escape a toxic belief system was by killing them.”

He knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say. A muscle twitches in Chief Daniels’ jaw. 

“Religious delusion,” he says, flatly. “You know, Dr. Reid, my family goes to that church. Damn near everyone in town does. I don't see any of us stabbing our mothers.” 

Spencer can hear the tension in Morgan’s voice when he responds, “Agent Reid and I are just exploring all the plausible theories,” and he doesn't object to the title. 

“I asked your unit to send someone here because I thought you were experts in psychopaths like that kid,” the chief says. “Not because I wanted a couple of outsiders from Washington to come here and tell me the way we do things is wrong.” 

“You're not dealing with a psychopath,” Morgan says heatedly. “But you are dealing with two people who know a hell of a lot more about this subject than you do, and you might want to start acting like it.” 

He walks out without another word, and Spencer, with a small apologetic smile, follows him. 

Morgan drives them back to their subpar accommodations on the edge of town, sunglasses on even though it's already dark. 

“I don't like the way those people talk to you,” he says when they pull into the parking lot. “All these small-town cops who have never even worked a homicide always think they know better than you.” 

Spencer shrugs. “I look young,” he says. “And certain types of men tend to interpret me as a challenge to conventional masculinity.” 

Morgan laughs a bitter laugh at that. 

“Anyway, it's not as if he respected you either. You should be angry about that.” 

Morgan takes his hands off the wheel and stops staring straight ahead, turning to look at Spencer. “Well, I'm used to it,” he says. 

“I'm used to it, too,” Spencer says simply. 

He wishes he could see Morgan’s eyes. 

“That kid’s still a killer,” Morgan says. “He’ll spend the rest of his life under observation and that's what he deserves.” 

“I know.”

“But growing up somewhere like this -- you have to think --” Morgan sighs in frustration. “I don't know. I’d like to see those people take a little bit of responsibility.”

“They will,” Spencer says, with false certainty. “That's what we’re here for.” 

Morgan takes his sunglasses off then, and folds them away into his shirt pocket. He looks at Spencer with something he can't account for, can’t name, and then he reaches out a hand and touches the side of his face. 

“Reid. Come here.” 

Spencer leans forward, because he doesn't really have any choice, because it's exactly like magnetism or maybe like a planet pulling a passing comet permanently into its orbit. The way Morgan kisses him is just a light touch of lips at first, his thumb brushing at Spencer’s cheekbone, and then it's deeper and harder and it's all Spencer can do to keep up, to try and remember how to breathe. 

Morgan is so good at kissing, it's unfair for anyone to be this good. He's tugging lightly at Spencer’s hair, and that’s especially unfair, and all Spencer wants to do is be closer to him. 

Which is seems like Morgan wouldn't mind, now, because because he hasn't stopped after one kiss the way he usually does. He hasn't stopped, and when Spencer has to break away because it really is getting difficult to breathe, Morgan doesn't even pause, just transfers his attention to attempting to undo Spencer’s tie. 

“You're always wearing too many layers of clothes,” he says, with a kind of manic laugh. He fumbles with the Windsor knot, but can't undo it, and eventually Spencer shoves his hand always and does it himself. 

Morgan grins and resumes kissing him, fingers dancing down Spencer’s throat in a series of tiny, elegant motions until he reaches the first button of his shirt and undoes it, and Spencer, leaning so far over into Morgan’s spaces that the car’s stick shift is jammed into his ribs, feels his heart skip at least two beats. 

“Can we, um.” It's so much harder than usual to find the right words when his brain is buzzing like this. “Can we. Go inside?” 

Abruptly, Morgan pulls away and puts his hands back on the steering wheel like he's trying to steady himself. “Yeah. Let me--” He fumbles for his wallet and presses something into Spencer’s hand. “Spare key to my room. Wait fifteen minutes.” 

Spencer's heart sinks. “Fifteen minutes?” 

“Not the time or the place for us to walk in together right now,” Morgan says.

Spencer catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror -- his tie askew, hair rumpled, face horribly flushed. It's obvious they haven't just been discussing the case. 

Morgan looks like he’s just stepped out the pages of an FBI training ad, like he always does, except for the wild, nervous look in his eyes. 

“Okay,” Spencer says. It comes out hoarse. 

Almost apologetically, Morgan tucks a stray strand of Spencer’s hair behind his ear. “You'll be fine. You can -- recite prime numbers or whatever it is you do.” 

“I don't do that,” Spencer says defensively. Morgan just grins at him, and a second later he's gone. 

Sitting alone in the passenger seat, Spencer lets his head fall into his hands in hopes that it might make the redness go away slightly. It doesn't help. 

His mind is supplying him with both every statistic he's ever read on hate crimes in the American South and a thousand scenarios for how this could go wrong. 

What if he doesn't remember how to do this? What if he walks in and Morgan has already changed his mind? What if he doesn't change his mind, and it's impossible to ever look him in the eye again and they get back to Quantico and the whole team immediately knows? 

Spencer sighs. Less than two full minutes have gone by. 

He starts reciting prime numbers. 

***  
When he wakes up the next morning, Spencer doesn't remember his dreams. 

He doesn't think he fell asleep with his back pressed to Morgan’s chest and Morgan’s arm holding him firmly by the waist, but that's definitely how he wakes up. 

He can feel Morgan’s heartbeat. 

The thought of what had happened last night feels like cause for full-scale panic; or at least, the thought of what is almost certainly going to happen next does. 

Guiltily, Spencer closes his eyes and enjoys the way this feels, the warmth and safety of it. Every minute he spends here is one he can catalogue for future reference, keep with him when everything, inevitably, falls apart. 

Then Morgan mutters something unclear in his sleep and turns away, dragging the blankets with him. 

Spencer escapes to the relative safety of the tiny motel shower and combs unsteady fingers through his hair, remembering the way Morgan’s hand had curled into it. He touches the still-red marks along his collarbone and half wishes he owned a single piece of clothing that wouldn't cover them up. 

When he walks out, Morgan is wide awake. He watches Spencer button his shirt all the way up to his neck and carefully knot his tie, and neither of them says anything. 

Back at the police station, Spencer leans across the interrogation table to Mitchell Swenson, with Morgan and the chief watching him from the other side of the glass. “Mitch,” he says, “you might not know it, but you have an opportunity here.” 

The kid doesn't respond, his arms crossed across his chest. 

“You can let everyone believe that this happened because a boy from a good, happy family just went crazy,” Spencer says. “You can let everyone talk about what was wrong with you, maybe say you were possessed by the devil. Or you can tell me what really happened. You can tell me what the church did to your family. What this town did.” 

Mitchell's eyes snap up and meet his. 

“I'll make sure everyone knows what really happened, Mitch,” Spencer says softly.

The boy bites his lip, looks around the room nervously. “Okay,” he says in a small voice, after a long moment. “I'll talk.” 

When Spencer walks out of the interrogation room, Chief Daniels is glaring at him, and Morgan’s smiling. “Good work, pretty boy,” he says, loud enough for all the local officers to hear it, and Spencer’s heart beats faster all the way back to D.C. 

*** 

Spencer joined the FBI because it was the right thing to do. 

Academia started to feel empty when he was 20. It was all relentless competition for degrees and publications and fellowships, and none of it could have possibly mattered to anyone outside of that narrow world. He wanted something else, something that made a difference to real people. 

He hadn't ever stopped reading about criminology, and he started leaving to the backs of the books for the author’s biographies. The ones that stuck out were the ones with real experience in law enforcement. The ones that made the strongest impression were Jason Gideon and David Rossi. 

It wasn't that Spencer believed in the inherent goodness of serving your country. It was the inherent violence of ordinary people that motivated him. This was a place where he could be useful. 

He'd offered to do any job that they wanted him for -- field agent, undercover, any of that. But it was really only the BAU that was interested in him. He could acknowledge that he was fairly useless to anyone else. It was Gideon who had kept an eye on him as he fumbled his way through training, Gideon who had made the case to the director that Spencer could make contributions to the team worth suspending some of the usual requirements. 

"I'm not really comfortable using guns," Spencer had confessed to Hotch and Gideon during his formal interview. 

Hotch looked skeptical, but Gideon just shrugged. "Don't use one until you're comfortable, then," he said. 

Gideon always seemed to understand. He was first person Spencer had ever met who really reminded him of himself.

That was probably why it hurt so much that he had a breaking point, that he wasn't infallible. That he'd left, knowing what it would do to Spencer and to the team, and gone somewhere where he wouldn't have to see the bodies or the headlines. 

Spencer hated him for it, when he didn't think he might have been right. You couldn't run from the world just because you wanted to run from yourself. 

He'd learned how to use a gun and tried to get comfortable with the feeling of resting his finger against the trigger. He knows half the agents in the bureau sleep with theirs at their sides, including most of his team. Spencer sleeps with his in a locked drawer in a separate room of the house. He knows the statistics about how much more likely a gun owner is to shoot himself than an armed intruder. Accidents happen.

***  
Ethan said, the first time he and Spencer went beyond awkward, tentative kissing, that sex would change everything, that their relationship would never be the same afterwards, and Spencer had said, breathless, “I don't care.” 

Ethan had been right about the two of them, but now that Spencer has a total of two sexual partners to compare, he thinks that the principle wasn't generally applicable. 

He's been trying to hint, subtly, that it would be alright with him if Morgan ever wanted to repeat the experience. He brings him coffee more often in the mornings, deliberately makes eye contact and smiles when Morgan says something particularly insightful, and sits next to him on the plane and in meetings as often as possible, sometimes brushing his hand against Morgan’s on purpose and then looking away, pretending he hasn't noticed. 

These are all successful methods of flirting. Spencer has read about them. 

They aren't getting him anywhere. 

It wasn't any different now, and he should have known better than to think it would be. He obviously doesn't want it to happen again, and Spencer is just as hopelessly stuck as he always has been. 

Then, abruptly, it gets much worse.

Prentiss has been lobbying them all to go see the new James Bond movie with her, mostly so she can mock its inaccurate portrayal of international espionage, and Morgan is the only one who hasn't given in yet. 

“Come on,” she says, tossing a paper clip at him across their desks. “It's a team bonding event. What's your excuse?” 

“I have a date, actually,” Morgan says, and Spencer’s pen abruptly stabs through three pages of his notebook. 

“Oh,” he says, in a tone of voice that earns him a strange look from Prentiss and JJ. “Um, I actually have an article on new developments in blood splatter analysis that I should finish editing. So. I shouldn't go either.” 

“Well, I hope you both have fun,” JJ says, joking but also half-suspicious, casting a another significant look at Spencer. 

He doesn't get any work done on the blood-splatter article. 

This whole predicament is really interfering with his work ethic, which he considers another point against romantic feelings, not that he's having any success talking himself out of them. 

He tries not to picture the woman Morgan is probably with, who is undoubtedly gorgeous, because they always are, and confident in a way Spencer never will be, and capable of easy flirting, and doesn't have an indelible association with death. 

Morgan, meanwhile, is probably being typically charming, making her laugh and pulling out her chairs and opening doors for her, leaning forward and looking at her with that look that says “you're the most fascinating person I’ve ever met,” and she'll fall for it, just like Spencer always does. 

Nothing’s enough of a distraction, and he winds up paging halfheartedly through a Douglas Adams novel while his traitorous brain reminds him that of course, Dilaudid could make him stop thinking about this. 

He considers writing to Gideon, which sometimes makes him feel better, these letters he’ll never get a reply to. But what would he say? Dear Gideon, Do you remember Agent Morgan? Well, we’re having some kind of tawdry workplace sexual affair, or at least we were -- I’m not sure he wants to continue, but I know it makes me miserable to consider him seeing other people. What should I do? Sincerely, Dr. Spencer Reid, SSA. 

That would be worse than what he usually writes, although unfortunately not by much. 

The night goes by impossibly slowly, and it's only just past 10:30 when someone knocks on his door.

He expects JJ and Prentiss, on one of their missions to persuade him to have some fun, but like anyone with a chronic case of justified paranoia, he looks through the peephole just in case. 

It's not JJ and Prentiss. 

“Hey, kid,” Morgan says sheepishly, and Spencer realizes that he’s awkwardly tied a cloth napkin around one of his hands and his knuckles and bleeding through it. “Can I come in?” 

“Um.” Spencer's painfully aware of his worn pajamas and mismatched socks; not that they're anything Morgan hasn't seen before, but he hasn't seen them since That Night, and Spencer is certain that his current thought process is running along the lines of God, what was I thinking? “Yes?” 

Morgan does. He’s holding his injured hand tightly and close to his chest, which means it hurts more than he's letting himself show on his face. 

“I’ll get you some ice,” Spencer says, and shepherds him towards the couch. Morgan offers him a grateful smile, and no explanation. 

Spencer walks into the kitchen and searches fruitlessly through his mostly empty refrigerator for anything frozen. Eventually he settles for a handful of ice cubes in a plastic bag. 

He catches a glimpse of his tangled hair and the dark circles under his eyes reflected on the fridge and wants to disappear into the floor. 

“I was in a bar fight,” Morgan says when Spencer returns to the living room, without preamble. “There was this guy who wouldn't stop hitting on the bartender. Being really aggressive about it, saying he was gonna wait for her after her shift. He didn't appreciate it when I told him to knock it off, so.” He shrugs as if it’s just what anyone would do. He's always the hero. “Had to take it outside.” 

“Well, I'm sure she was grateful,” Spencer says. 

“She was.” Morgan winces as Spencer presses the ice to his hand. “My date wasn't.” 

He clearly has nothing more to say about that. Spencer thinks about how hard you have to hit someone to tear the skin on your knuckles. “Ice helps. Thanks.” 

Spencer holds the ice against Morgan’s hand until his own fingers start to go numb. 

It's not easy to learn how to read someone's heartbeat; it's one of the more subtle physiological signs. It's something he can really only do with people he knows well, but he learned Morgan’s tells without really trying, and he always listens for Morgan’s heart. 

He can feel his pulse now, warm under his cold fingertips, and it's faster than usual, and Spender thinks about what a frail and fragile thing it is, just below his skin. 

He wonders if it's just adrenaline, that faster pulse, and he wonders if Morgan can feel his, if he even notices. 

“Reid,” Morgan says quietly, and Spencer realizes how tightly he’s holding on. 

“Sorry,” he says, releasing Morgan’s hand, and there's blood on both of their hands now. 

“I should --” Morgan says, at the same time that Spencer says, “We should --” and they both break off awkwardly. 

Morgan laughs slightly. “You know I didn't want to be on that date,” he says flatly. 

“Why’d you go, then?” 

Spencer’s painfully conscious of both of their heartbeats now, and he thinks Morgan must be able to hear his. 

“Guess it kind of scares me that I wanted to be here,” Morgan says. 

Reid feels Morgan’s fingers brush softly against his wrist and closes his eyes. 

And then Morgan’s kissing him again, in that same frantic way, pulling him roughly forward, and Spencer falls with him, bracing his hands on Morgan’s shoulders and letting it happen. 

“God, you make me crazy,” Morgan breathes in between kisses, and Spencer doesn't know quite what he means, but he thinks it's mutual. 

Morgan kisses him hard and winds a hand into his hair and Spencer just tries to keep up, to remember to breathe, and he wonders if it will ever stop feeling like this, like he's falling from the highest height he ever has, like he's delirious. 

And then it stops as abruptly as it began, and Morgan looks at him with sad eyes, and Spencer still doesn't know what to say. 

“This is a bad idea,” Morgan says, his hand falling from Spencer’s hair. “I'm never going to make you happy.” 

“You -- but I --” Spencer’s hands flail uselessly at Morgan’s shoulders. “But you do make me happy.” 

He doesn't know what Morgan is trying to say. He pulls his hands away and twists them together nervously, and Morgan bites his lip, and neither of them moves. 

“I'm no good at relationships, Reid,” Morgan says. 

“I didn't know this was a relationship,” Spencer replies honestly. His heart is beating too loudly again. 

Morgan is avoiding his eyes.

Sometimes his mind is like a foreign country to Spencer, strange and murky and almost-but-not-quite understandable the way a language barrier makes things, and Spencer wants to understand Morgan more than anyone, to get inside of his head and stay there. 

“Do you want me to go?” Morgan asks, sounding completely resigned. 

“No. No.” 

Morgan’s arms are folded across his chest. Spencer’s never seen him so closed off. Spencer wants to interrogate him until he tells him how he really feels. He wants to crawl into his arms and never let go. He wants to cry. 

“You're my best friend,” Spencer says. “I know I'm not yours, but--” 

“Don't say that,” Morgan interrupts. “You're my -- you're my, something else.” 

Spencer reaches forward then, slowly, carefully, and covers Morgan’s hand with his again. He can see the tension in Morgan’s eyebrows start of slowly fade out. 

“I can't stop thinking about you,” Morgan says, low and confessional. “And I don’t know what that means.” 

“You can just stay,” Spencer says. “We don't have to… talk about it.” 

Morgan takes his hand again, and Spencer can see that the cuts have already stopped bleeding. The ice is lying on the floor, forgotten. 

“That sounds like a good plan,” Morgan says. 

Spencer breathes out a long sigh of relief. He opens his mouth to ask Morgan if he can kiss him again, but Morgan gets there first. 

*** 

Things had ended badly, with Ethan. 

Spencer had tried to frame it in terms of rationality, statistical probability. It wasn't fair, he’d told Ethan; it wasn't fair to ask him to make some kind of commitment to someone who might be barely lucid by the time they were thirty. 

It was nothing he hadn't said before, but only half-asleep in the middle of night when it wouldn't have to mean anything in the morning. Their relationship was never easy. They said things they couldn't say to anyone else, and if they hurt each other it was with the understanding that it wouldn't stick. 

But it couldn't last; nothing like this could. Graduation was approaching and they had to make plans for where they would be going afterwards. Ethan had hinted that they could pursue postdoctoral studies together, and the idea of that, of arranging his life around another person or letting another person do the same for him, made Spencer panic.

This time was serious. This time had to be final. 

He’d initiated this breakup conversation in public, like everything he had read recommended, in the college food court when Ethan came to campus to visit him, and Ethan had just looked at him with these sad, disappointed eyes across their table, like it wasn't even a surprise. Like the whole time they’d known each other, most of their lives, had just been building towards this. 

“God,” Ethan had said, shaking his head, “you really are so selfish, Spencer.” 

That had derailed his script completely. “Selfish? I'm -- I'm being the opposite of selfish. I don't want you to have to deal with, with me--” 

“No,” Ethan said sharply. “You don't want to have to deal with anyone who cares about you.” 

He didn't understand, Spencer thought. Didn't he know how much their relationship meant to Spencer, how much he wanted things to stay exactly as they were? Didn't he grasp that it would be easier to end this now than later, when they were even more attached? 

“You wouldn't have stayed, anyway,” he said, because it would hurt Ethan more. 

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Oh, God. Right. You're such a martyr. And I'm just like your dad, right?” 

Spencer couldn't look at him anymore. He stared at the half-eaten muffin he’d been picking at and tried not to cry. “Maybe you are,” he said. 

Ethan stands up and gathered his books, scowling furiously. “Okay. Okay, I’ll just go.” 

“Fine,” Spencer said, and he could hear how small and pathetic his voice was.

Ethan looked down at him with pure scorn. “You're only going to be miserable because you want to be,” he said. 

And then he turned on his heel and walked away, and Spencer let himself cry. 

He hadn't seen him again until the first day of training at Quantico, that dream they'd always talked about achieving together, and by then Ethan was drinking. His mother had told Spencer’s mother and she’d told Spencer and he knew, of course, that it was his fault. He’d made Ethan lonely; he’d made him “troubled”, that world people always used. 

He suspected he’d made Ethan leave training on that first day too, without ever saying a word. 

There hadn't been anyone after Ethan, not really. The team had made assumptions, the way people did, teased him about girls, and Spencer hadn't bothered to correct them. It was a moot point, anyway, for him. A data set that would only have one point. 

Apart from a few ill-advised experiments like Lila and that one night in New Orleans, he’d lived like a monk. Married to the work, as so many people in the FBI said they were. It was better not to try to divide your attentions. 

And now there was Morgan. His second data point. Which wasn't even enough to establish a trend, much less refute one, but it feels like that’s exactly what's happening. 

They don’t talk about what they are, what they’re doing, but it doesn’t take place exclusively on the road anymore. They bleed into each other's’ life, spend almost every free moments together at one or another of their apartments, and Spencer starts to get used to not waking up alone, to eating breakfast together, to timing their separate arrivals at the office in intervals that won't arouse any suspicion.

What they have should be exactly what Spencer wants. Secret, noncommittal, safe. When it ends, and it will, they'll both know there was never any expectation of forever. 

It should be enough, except that he keeps catching himself thinking of all the things he can't do. Hold Morgan’s hand in public in line at the coffee shop. Say something to the flight attendants and local police officers who pass their phone numbers to Morgan instead of having to pretend he doesn't notice. Talk about him the way JJ talks about Will, the way Hotch used to talk about Haley, with the thinly disguised pride of having found someone, despite the odds and the pressures of the job and the general isolating, often horrifying nature of the world, someone who made them happy. 

Sometimes, Spencer whispers “I love you” in languages he knows Morgan won't understand, and Morgan doesn't ask for a translation. 

***  
They work out the pattern eventually (the unsub has been leaving bodies blocks from supposedly haunted hotels, and the dates match the schedule of an alleged paranormal researcher) but Spencer’s been awake for 36 hours by the time Hotch emerges from his office briefly at 5 o’clock and announces that everyone's free to go. 

Spencer more or less lets Morgan steer him home (to Morgan’s apartment, which he really shouldn't start thinking of that way) and falls gratefully onto the couch. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles. “Can we get Thai food?” 

Morgan smiles at him with some kind of fondness and Spencer thinks these are the moments he would want to memorize the most, if he could choose. 

“Yeah, I'll order something,” Morgan says. “You can watch TV if you want. Or just sleep.” 

Spencer turns on the only channel he regularly watches, CSPAN, which is in the middle of an energy policy hearing. It earns him an incredulous look from Morgan when he walks back into the room. 

“You can't really watch this,” he says in disbelief. 

“We work for the federal government!” Spencer protests. “How do you even know who to call when a congressman proposed cutting our budget?” 

“Oh my God.” Morgan shakes his head, grinning. “I would love to hear that conversation.” 

“If you cite enough serial killing statistics, it's not hard to find political common ground.” 

Morgan laughs and grabs the remote back. “Alright,” he says, “how about actually relaxing for a change?” 

He flips through the channels until he gets to something called HGTV, which Spencer has never seen before. 

It appears to be mostly about two square-jawed men shouting numbers at each other and tearing down the walls of a foreclosed house. Every few moments, Morgan laughs out loud at something Spencer fails to grasp the humor of. 

“Is this what you do on the weekends?” Spencer says. 

“Mm-hmm. When you're not here.” 

Spencer laughs. “Oh, I'm sorry, am I distracting you from your business interests?” 

“You're very distracting, Dr. Reid,” Morgan says, and takes the opportunity to put his arm around Spencer’s shoulders. 

He tucks his head against Morgan’s shoulder and lets himself relax, listening to the hum of voices on screen and Morgan explaining what the contractors are doing wrong, and it feels -- warm. 

It feel safe and comfortable and real, and those are all things he’s never felt before, not with anyone else or even with himself, and Spencer catches himself wishing again that it could always be like this. The two of them together and safe. 

It's been too long since he spoke, and Morgan notices, turning off the sound on the TV. 

“Okay, what's going on in your head?” he says, teasingly, twisting a strand of Spencer’s hair. 

Spencer turns slightly and kisses his jaw. “The human mind can follow seven trains of thought simultaneously,” he says. “Where do you want me to start?” 

All he can think is I love you. I love you. I love you. 

***  
His dreams are preoccupied with one subject, lately. 

There are so many ways in their line of work that Morgan could get hurt, and his dreams remind him of all of them. 

***

“Okay,” JJ says, “we need to talk.” 

Spencer blinks at her. He's just stepped over the threshold of her house, letting himself in with his spare key, and she's sitting at her kitchen table with a glass of wine, giving him a measured, searching look. 

“Where's Henry?” Spencer says blankly. “I thought you and Will we're going to dinner.” 

“Will took Henry to the park,” JJ says, very meaningfully. 

It dawns on Spencer that this was a set-up. 

He crosses to the dining room table and sits down resentfully. “I brought him a chemistry set,” he says, gesturing at it. “I was going to teach him how to make a baking soda volcano.” 

“You can come over tomorrow night,” JJ says, and pushes him a glass of wine. Spencer pushes it back. 

“So,” she says, “what's going on with you lately?” 

“I don't know what you mean,” he respondes immediately, and just as quickly knows it sounds rehearsed. 

JJ raises her eyebrows, and Spencer realizes he's about to be interrogated. 

“Spence, how long have we been friends?” she asks. “That's rhetorical, don't tell me the exact date. I'm just saying I know you well enough to know when something’s up with. And you've been acting different lately.” 

“I don't think I have,” Spencer says. He's been trying not to. 

JJ just raises a single, knowing eyebrow. 

“I haven't relapsed, if that’s what you mean,” Spencer says. Maybe she'll feel guilty enough for the assumption to let him leave. 

“No,” JJ agrees instead, “you’ve just been more withdrawn, more nervous, and you keep disappearing with Morgan after every case.” 

Involuntarily, Spencer flinches. 

“We’re friends,” he manages. “We spend time together.” 

JJ raises her eyebrows so far they almost disappear into her hairline. “You and I haven't done anything in weeks. I had to ask you to babysit just to get you over here.”

Spencer presses his palms flat against the tablecloth in an attempt to eliminate any tells. It isn't working. 

“I just want you to be able to tell me,” JJ says. 

“But I can't,” Spencer says quietly, “because it's not just mine to tell.” 

He can tell that she immediately understands, and he has to fight down a wave of guilt. He just can't lie to her. 

“Oh, Spence,” she says, almost pityingly. 

“It's fine,” he says quickly. “I mean, I'm an adult, I can make rational decisions, it's a mutual arrangement and no one’s getting hurt--” 

He can see her whole conception of him shifting, and he hates that. He wonders if she sees him as hopelessly naive. He wonders if she's right. 

JJ frowns worriedly. “I didn't know either of you were… interested in men.” 

Spencer bites down on a statistic about how many men in law enforcement choose not to disclose their sexuality. “Does it matter?” 

“Of course not,” she says. “I just want you to be happy.” 

Everyone says that, and he never understands why. As if it's the most important thing, to be happy, rather than to be useful and making a difference in the world. As if it's something that he can will himself into, anyway, or guarantee for himself. Thinking you deserve to be happy is what leads people to do things like take painkillers they haven't been prescribed, or worse. Happiness isn't mandatory. You can live without it. 

“I'm fine,” Spencer promises. “I'm fine.”

JJ gives him a hesitant smile. “Okay,” she says. “Spence?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you want to teach me how to make a baking soda volcano?” 

Spencer grins and reaches for his chemistry set.

*** 

Scientific conferences are a nice refuge from the day-to-day work at the FBI. Everything’s strictly theoretical, and it's relaxing to get lost in the haze of numbers for a while, to not have to think about the people behind them. 

Spencer presents a new paper on geographical profiling in Boston, and gets an enthusiastically positive response, which he makes a mental note to tell the rest of the team about next time they regard his maps with confusion. 

A few researchers from the ATF pepper him with questions for almost two hours at the hotel reception, and Spencer winds up getting back to his room late at night. 

When he finally has a chance to glance at his phone, he has three missed calls from Morgan. 

Spencer swears to himself and dials as quickly as he can. 

“Do you need my help on a case?” he says as soon as Morgan answers.

“Hi to you too,” Morgan laughs. “No, we’re still in Quantico.” 

“Oh.” Spencer sits on the edge of the hotel bed and tugs nervously at his tie. “Um, why’d you call so many times?” 

Morgan's silent for a moment, and Spencer wishes he could see his face. He wants to ask, where are you? What are you doing right now? 

But that silence tells him it isn't that kind of call. 

“Sorry,” Morgan says. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” 

Spencer smiles to himself. “Oh. Um. What did you want me to say?” 

Morgan pauses for a moment, and Spencer can imagine the hesitation written on his face, the insecurity that he can see sometimes and doesn't quite understand. 

“Can you just tell me about your day?” he says. 

So Spencer does, telling him about his presentation and the other conference panels and running into an old classmate from Caltech, well aware that it’s a rambling and pointless narrative. Morgan doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't interrupt, just lets Spencer keep talking until he runs out of words. 

When he's related nearly everything that's happened in the last few days, awkward silence falls between them until Morgan breaks it. 

“Buford’s appealing his sentence,” he says finally. “I'll have to testify again. I don't know… I just wanted to talk to you.” 

Spencer feels ice run through his veins. “God, Morgan, I'm sorry,” he says, not knowing what else there is to say. 

“It'll be okay,” he sighs. “Not like his conviction is gonna get overturned. It's just how these things work.” 

Spencer can picture the set of his jaw when he says it, the resolute refusal to seem vulnerable, and it's exactly what makes him worry so much for Morgan, and what makes him seem so unreachable and far away, even when they're together. 

But he isn't unreachable. He's here, or at least on the other end of the phone line, and Spencer isn't the person who can say the right thing to make someone feel better, but he has to try. 

“It still isn't fair,” he says. “You shouldn't have to think about him at all.” 

“I don't, usually,” Morgan says. “Less and less.” 

There's another long pause, and then Morgan says, in a rushed voice, “And when I heard about it I just wanted to talk to you, because… I know I'm not being fair to you, Reid. I’ve never… I’ve only dated women.”

Spencer bites his lip. “You don't have to explain it to me.” 

“But I don't want you to think -- I mean, it's just always been easier for me,” Morgan says, “not to think about it. After -- you know.” 

Spencer does, and he doesn't know what to say.

“But I don't think about that with you,” Morgan says, and his voice is soft and serious and god, Spencer is scared. 

“Reid, you still here?” Morgan asks, and Spencer wishes they were together, that he could reach for Morgan’s hand. 

I want to be good enough for you, Spencer thinks.

“JJ knows about us,” he confesses instead, thankful that the conversational convention doesn't require him to define what he means by “us.” 

Morgan sighs, a faint crackle through the line. “Yeah,” he says, “I think Garcia does too.” 

“It's not like we’re hiding anything,” Spencer says defensively, not sounding convincing to himself. “It's just personal.” 

“Right,” Morgan says, and Spencer can't read his tone. 

“I don't think about anything else when I’m with you,” Spencer says quietly, his mouth dry and his hands clammy. “And we’re -- we’re good, aren't we?” 

“I think we are,” Morgan says. And there's nothing final to it, nothing certain, but it means something. 

Spencer smiles and lets himself let go of the tension that's been running all through his body. “Next time you call I’ll pick up on the first ring,” he says. “No matter where I am.” 

He can practically hear Morgan’s smile. “I'm gonna hold you to that, pretty boy.” 

There’s a flair of pain in Spencer’s head, and he sighs, frustrated. “I should go to sleep,” he says, a little angry with himself for how tired he suddenly feels. 

“You okay?” Morgan says. 

“I just have a headache,” he says softly. “That's all.” 

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Morgan says. The genuine concern makes Spencer feel deeply guilty. The last thing he wants to be is another thing for Morgan to worry about. 

“No,” he says. “I’ll see you at work on Monday.” 

And if there’s a missing space at the end of the conversation where something else should be said, neither of them says it. 

***

It's been years since they've been called away on a case on Christmas -- the holiday season is more about suicides than violent crime -- but when they do get a summons on December 22nd, something about it feels worse than usual. Child abductions are hard any time of the year, but hearing everyone make their last minute apology calls, Hotch and JJ promising their children they'll try to make it back in time, stings a little more. 

Spencer makes his own call and tries not to think about the patients he's seen sitting alone on previous Christmases. "It's alright, sweetheart," his mother says. "I know your work is important."

The case is miserable -- two missing four-year-old girls in the same Utah neighborhood, no leads to go on -- and Spencer can tell it reminds JJ and Hotch even more of their own children than it ordinarily might. 

But when a third girl goes missing, Garcia finds the sealed juvenile records of her cousin, and they get lucky; they find all three girls in the storage facility he owns, alive and all unharmed as possible in the circumstances. It's as close to a Christmas miracle as their families could hope for.

And still only Christmas Eve. 

“We can make it back to D.C. before tomorrow morning,” Hotch announces. “Morgan, we can drop you off in Chicago if you prefer.” He turns to Spencer, looking apologetic. “Reid, I asked about Las Vegas, but they're experiencing major snow storms. Flights aren't being allowed through.” 

Spencer looks out at the scarce snowflakes falling outside and thinks about the prospect of spending Christmas across the country from the only family he has. 

“I should drive down there,” he says. “It's not that far…”

“Reid, you're welcome to spend Christmas with us,” Rossi says. 

Spencer shakes his head. “Thank you, but no, my mom needs me to be there.” 

“I'll come with you,” Morgan says insistently. He looks at Spencer over the top of his sunglasses. 

It's a look that is clearly intended to communicate something Spencer isn't grasping. “Your family's in Chicago,” he says. 

“You shouldn't drive alone out there,” Morgan says. 

Spencer realizes that they the entire rest of the team is staring at them. JJ and Prentiss raise their eyebrows at the same moment. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“Okay,” Hotch says, sounding bemused. “Well, everyone else, wheels up in thirty.” 

The rest of the team files out of the conference room until they're left alone. “Why would you do that?” Spencer demands indignantly, crossing his arms. 

“Why would I volunteer to go with you so you don't have to drive for three hours alone in a snowstorm?” 

“Your family's in Chicago,” Spencer mumbles. 

Morgan shrugs. “They'll be alright.” 

So Spencer lets it happen. They rent a car, purchase two of the largest coffees they can find, and head for the red dot on Spencer’s mental map marked “home”. Morgan drives and, when his iPod reveals a disappointing lack of classical opera, attempts to continue Spencer’s education in the history of rap. Two albums in, they've formulated a behaviorally sound thesis on how Tupac died. 

According to the rental car’s GPS, they're only an hour outside of city limits when traffic comes grinding to a halt and stays that way. 

Morgan swears and cranes his neck forward, trying to see what's happening further down the freeway through the snow. “There must have been a crash,” he sighs. 

Spencer turns down the music and leans back in his seat. “Well, there isn't anything we can do except wait.” 

“I don't have to go with you to see your mom if you don't want me to,” he says. “I know it's a little weird.” 

Spencer frowns. “You've met her before.” 

“Yeah, but that was on business, this is…” Morgan makes a vague hand gesture. “Personal.” He shifts the car into park and looks right at Spencer. “It makes you uncomfortable to talk about her. Reid… your neurologist doesn't want you to drive alone.” 

Spencer flinches. It was a mistake, to tell Morgan about the headaches, but he had noticed Spencer’s quiet moods and many doctors’ appointments.

Everyone said they were psychosomatic, and Spencer hadn't told Morgan what he really suspected. 

“You're worrying about me,” he says, fiddling with the air conditioning. “You don't need to.” 

“Kid, come on. You can talk to me,” Morgan says, and Spencer wishes he could believe it. 

“Everyone keeps telling me there aren't any physical symptoms,” he says. “I know it could be confirmation bias, it's just… I also know it could be the first sign of a schizophrenic break.” 

He doesn't know what kind of reaction he’s expecting from Morgan, but it isn't the sad smile that he gets. “Don't you think it's more likely that it's just stress?” 

“No.” Spencer stares out through the windshield, watching the wipers clear away the snow again and again only for it to be replaced instants later. “I know it's more than that.” 

“Reid, you have a stressful job, you forget to wear your contacts half the time and I know you barely sleep,” Morgan says impatiently. “You don't even take painkillers.”

“Because I’m an addict!” Spencer says, and it comes out louder and angrier and more broken than he meant it to. “My brain is always working against me and I have to control it,” he says, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “I could be running out of time in control. I can't have drugs.” 

He can tell that Morgan is still looking at him, and it makes his eyes water. “That doesn't mean you don't ask for help, Reid,” Morgan says sadly. 

Spencer closes his eyes. “I'm sick, Morgan,” he says. “I'm only going to get worse.” 

“Even if you did get sick, do you think I wouldn't want to know about it? Do you think I wouldn't want to help?” 

“There's only so much you can do to help,” Spencer mutters. There are still tears trying to escape his eyes. He does his best to try and hold them back. “Even if medications had some effect, I wouldn't be able to work anymore, not in this field. I probably wouldn't even be able to write, do research.” He can taste blood in his mouth where he’s bitten the inside of his lip. “My mother used to be a brilliant mathematician.” 

His eyes fly open when he feels Morgan’s hand settle gently on his knee. Spencer looks back to him and Morgan’s expression is clouded, halfway between confusion and sadness. “And you think if you couldn't do that, you wouldn't still be you,” he says. “But your mother is. You know better.” 

Spencer breathes in a long breath. “It's not the same,” he says, as monotone as he can be. “I have dreams about hurting people. I can't know that I wouldn't.” 

In front of them, the cars start moving again. 

There's a long moment of silence as Morgan shifts the car back into drive and they start moving very slowly forward. His hand isn't resting on Spencer’s knee anymore, and Spencer curls his whole body closer to the car door and in on himself. 

“Dreams and intrusive thoughts aren't an indicator of your actual desires,” Morgan says. He's looking out at the road again, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. “You would be the first person to say that about anyone else. You should know that about yourself.” 

Spencer doesn't reply. 

“And for the record, I’d still care about you if you couldn't do math anymore,” Morgan says, and to Spencer’s surprise he sounds almost angry. “I can't believe you don't know that.” 

Spencer’s cheeks are wet. They spend the rest of the trip in silence. 

*** 

“I was expecting to see that nice Derek Morgan with you,” Diana says. She’s using a faux-casual tone, and Spencer narrows his eyes. 

She's doing well tonight, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued as she always was on her best days. Spencer's sitting across a chessboard from her in a room full of people making casual holiday conversation, being interrogated. She's been through his hair, his wardrobe, and the FBI’s retirement plan, and this seems to be the next plan of attack. 

“How did you know he was with me?” 

“I heard him talking to you when you called me from the road.” She leans forward and gives him a serious look. “I was hoping I would get to see him again. He's the first boy you’ve brought to meet me since Ethan.” 

“It's not like that,” Spencer says, but his mother seems not to hear him. 

“He's living with someone now,” she continues. “His mother told me. A guitar player.” Her voice curls with distaste on those last words, and he can tell she's unimpressed, as she always has been with Ethan’s career change. 

You have a gift, Spencer, she’d told him once. You have a responsibility to use it. 

“I'm happy for him,” Spencer says, and he's surprised by the sincerity of it. He doesn't begrudge Ethan his life in New Orleans anymore. There was nothing wrong with accepting happiness, if you could find it. 

He doesn't feel the same sadness about Ethan anymore, regardless. They’ve both built their own separate lives, and Spencer is happy for him. As much as he might be happier if his own life was going slightly better. 

“Where is Agent Morgan?” his mother says archly. “You didn't leave him alone on Christmas, did you?” 

Spencer fidgets nervously. “I… might have,” he admits. 

Diana falls silent for a long moment, and for a while Spencer thinks that she's slipping away again. He sits patiently, the way he always does, waiting for her to come back. But she looks at him suddenly with a sharp, piercing look, and says, “Honey, I never wanted you to be alone.” 

She can always tell. They understand each other as well as anyone in the world ever will. 

“I know,” Spencer says, and pushes one of his pawns a square forward for something to do. “But he doesn't…”

He doesn't feel that way, he means to say, but then he remembers the edge to Morgan’s voice last night on the road, and suddenly something like hope is perching in his soul. 

“He doesn't know,” he finishes lamely instead. 

Diana fixes him with an unimpressed glare. “It's Christmas,” she says. “Why don't you go tell him?”

Spencer looks out the window over her shoulder. It's still snowing outside, because of course this would be the year that Nevada’s weather would display the appropriate level of Christmas spirit. 

It's a setting right out of a romantic film, and while Spencer may have gotten past his romantic film phase in middle school, she's right. There's never going to be a better time than this. 

“I think I should go,” he says. 

Spencer picks up Chinese food on the way back to the hotel (Morgan always orders the same thing) and pauses outside the door of their hotel room, trying to get up the courage to walk in. 

“It's open, Reid,” Morgan calls, and Spencer has to smile. 

He shrugs off his coat and scarf and sets the food down on the tiny end table. Morgan doesn't get up from where he's sitting on one of the twin beds, leafing through a catalog of Fifty Fun Things To Do In Las Vegas. 

“I brought food,” Spencer says, stating the obvious. “It's not a traditional Christmas dinner, but I thought it might be -- nice.” 

“Thanks,” Morgan says, but he still doesn't move. “Come sit down.” 

It sounds like an order, so Spencer does. 

“Are we just going to watch a children's Christmas program?” Spencer says eventually. 

Morgan turns to him, half a smile playing on his lips. “You know, maybe at the end of the story Rudolph should have learned that people would value him even if he didn't have a light-up nose. Because he's a good person with a good heart, even when he's not working for Santa.” 

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Point taken,” he grumbles. “Very subtle metaphor.” 

“I've been watching these things all day. Been learning a lot about the true meaning of Christmas.” He grins. “Which reminds me, I got you a present.” 

He retrieves a package from the drawer of the bedside table and holds it out to Spencer. 

It's clearly a book, but Spencer is startled when he carefully tears the paper off and sees the title -- In Cold Blood, the first true crime he’d ever read. He’d told Morgan that once, and obviously he’d remembered. 

“Is this --” 

“Yeah, Morgan says, beaming. “A signed first edition.” 

“That's incredible,” Spencer says. “You're incredible. Thank you.” 

He kisses the corner of Morgan’s mouth, because he can't think of anything else to do. 

“I need to tell you something,” Spencer says, around a lump in his throat, and he's trying to avoid eye contact, but then Morgan’s touching his chin lightly, making him look up, and then-- 

“I love you,” Morgan says softly, and it's like all the breath has been knocked out of Spencer’s lungs. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“I know I've probably handled that in the worst way possible,” Morgan says. “And I know it's complicated with the BAU we both have a lot of bad stuff to work through but, God. Reid. I'm so tired of looking at you and not saying it.” 

He's holding onto one of Spencer’s hands and after he's finished saying that he bites his lip, staring, looking somewhere between hope and bracing for a blow. 

Spencer can't process this. This is a discovery on par with the theory of evolution or the structure of DNA. Perception of life should change entirely as a result. 

He knows how to read sincerity on someone's face, and it's written all over Morgan’s. 

“Really?” Spencer says.

Morgan laughs. “Yes, really,” he says. “What kind of profiler are you?” 

“Wait a second,” Spencer says, and scrambles to his feet. “I have something for you too.” 

He fumbles through his bag for the envelope and presses it into Morgan’s hand, sitting down again cross-legged next to him. 

Morgan opens in slowly, and looks almost confused. “You got me hockey tickets?” he says. 

“I was hoping we could go together,” Spencer says in a rush. “Because you like it and I picked a day of the year statistically unlikely to be the date of any major crimes and I thought it could be a, a date. I love you too. By the way.” 

Morgan kisses him, slow and sweet, and Spencer has never been more sure of anything. 

“I know,” he says. “What kind of profiler do you think I am?” 

***  
Spencer offers to transfer to another department -- he gets offers, and although there are questionable ethics he doesn't agree with in many FBI departments, he could certainly contribute to something like white collar crime or human trafficking -- but Morgan just shrugs it off. 

“No one’s transferring anywhere,” he says. “The team needs you.” 

“Is Strauss going to agree with that assessment?” Spencer says skeptically. 

Morgan grins. “If she doesn't, I can remind her that half the bureau knows she's sneaking around with Rossi.” 

Spencer didn't know that, and somewhat wishes he still didn't.

Sitting in Hotch's office reminds him of nothing so much as being called in to talk to the principal when he was ten and let other students copy his answers on an AP chemistry exam.

“Well,” Hotch says, drumming his fingers on his desk and falling silent. 

Morgan squeezes Spencer’s hand. 

“I'm guessing this has been going on long enough for me to know that it won't affect your work,” Hotch says, and he smiles. 

Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says. “It won't! We have very clear professional boundaries --” 

Hotch waves a hand dismissively. “Got it, Reid. Let's get back to work.” 

Morgan more or less leads him out of the office by the elbow, grinning. “Told you it would fine,” he says, and kisses Spencer on the cheek. 

*** 

Six months later, on the plane back from a case, Morgan texts him a link to a real estate website. 

It's an old Victorian house outside of Quantico, and it's falling apart. The paint is chipped, the windowsills sagging, vines growing over the door. But Spencer can see a kind of grandeur in it, a soaring, impressive quality. It had been something great once, and it could be again. 

“Are you thinking about renovating this?” Spencer says. 

“Maybe,” Morgan says, with an enigmatic smile. 

He doesn't bring it up again until later, when they're walking to Spencer’s apartment together. 

“So what did you think of the house?” 

There's a serious tone to his voice that makes Spencer pause. He thinks back to the images of the place, beautiful but clearly neglected. 

“It needs work,” Spencer says, “but I see what you like about it.” 

“It's got a solid foundation,” Morgan says. 

“Have you put an offer on it yet?” Spencer says. “Because if you haven't….” He trails off, hoping Morgan might say it for him. 

Morgan just quirks an eyebrow, a challenge. 

“...Would you want to make one together?” Spencer manages to say. 

Morgan's smiles is delighted and bright as he takes Spencer’s hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”


End file.
